


Blizzards Left Unattended

by SassSexandSmut



Series: Windward [2]
Category: The Fall (TV 2013), The X-Files
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassSexandSmut/pseuds/SassSexandSmut
Summary: At ten, Stella's plane arrives. At eleven, a foot of snow has fall in DC. At twelve, Scully's pajamas are discarded on the kitchen floor.Christmas Eve with Scully and Stella.





	

“I haven’t missed anyone. Not recently.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Scully said into her cell phone. She sat cross-legged on her bed, wrinkling the impeccably folded sheets. She glanced at the clock—three in the morning. Stella’s flight would take off in an hour. It would land in seven, but only one would pass. The London-to-DC time difference had wormed its way into their daily lives.

It was strange, Scully mused, how time had bent and re-shaped her perception of reality. A seven hour flight reduced to one. Two months of absence, of late night phone calls and long work hours, incomparable to the short stretch of time before Stella would land in Dulles airport.

“It will be nice to spend the holidays with someone.”

Scully chewed her lip. “When was the last time you did?”

Stella chuckled. “I see my mother occasionally. We have a—difficult—relationship.”

“I don’t usually leave work for the holidays.”

“Neither do I.” The rustle of bags. “I’m boarding. See you soon.”

“Goodnight, Stella. For the record,” said Scully, “I miss you too.” And she hung up the phone.

Theirs was a strange relationship—if that’s what it could be called. Scully never thought ‘we’re fucking’ could quite cover it. They kept in touch sporadically, piecing each other together over the phone. Stella was a tangled ball of thread, slowly unwinding with care and effort. Being somewhat closed off herself, Scully understood. Neither of them had any reason to trust. They oscillated between tentative and sexual.

An understanding has passed between them the moment Stella sat beside her in a crowded bar. The years had ripped at them, bitten them and worn them away, but they remained unbeaten. They still held their heads high and worked tirelessly, demanding the respect they deserved.

In Stella’s bedroom, Scully once imagined them as crooked blocks, children’s toys that fit perfectly together, even if they were a little misaligned, asymmetrical. And perhaps they were, tangled together in the kitchen of Stella’s flat, spinning on the grey tile floor. They had been moons trapped in orbit, bound to each other magnetically.

Outside that room—outside that galaxy—neither Scully nor Stella would orbit something so small as another human being. Scully, she orbited questions, the infinite mysteries of God and universe waiting to be discovered, the unbelievable occurrences that contradicted all she understood. Stella orbited justice, that of the law and of her own moral compass.

They were perhaps like lengths of twine, that when left to their own devices, coiled together seemingly by magic.

Scully left her phone on the bed and wandered into her living room. Her Christmas tree glittered, fully lit but sparsely decorated. She had never hung stockings in her home, not since she was a child. She wouldn’t sleep, not until Stella had arrived safely in DC. A winter storm was blowing in; outside, the wind howled. It had not yet begun to snow, but as bare branches scraped the wall of her home, she knew it would not be long before snow piled up on the roof.

She passed the hours drinking coffee—freshly pressed and laced with peppermint, as per one of her only holiday traditions—and reading medical journals. The wind carried through the early morning. At eight, she opened her curtains, only to find a thin blanket of snow covering the grass, and as the wind died down, it fell in heavy, fat flakes onto every surface.

She checked the time, glanced anxiously back to the snow-covered neighborhood. “Winter wonderland could have waited a few hours,” she mumbled to the empty living room. She checked her watch again: eight fifteen.

Shivering, Scully cranked up her thermostat and shuffled to the kitchen. She pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and a bottle of champagne (a holiday gift from an unfortunate colleague at the hospital seeking her affections). She took her finest wine glasses from the cupboard and rubbed the dust from their rims. It had been months—years, perhaps—since she’d had occasion to use them. She worked most nights, didn’t host parties and rarely brought dates home. When she did have a date, he never saw her house, and her relationships tended to last a couple weeks at best.

Stella was an exception, given she only saw Stella a few times every year. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, she mused, or something like that. But she certainly wouldn’t consider Stella a date. They had no defined relationship; they refused to define it, and yet she’d flown to London twice in the last year.  


They had an understanding, and Scully decided that was better than a relationship. A relationship was domesticity, something Stella despised and something which had only brought Scully suffering. A relationship was what developed when you learned everything there was to know about someone, and Scully held the firm belief that if you truly loved someone, you never stopped learning about them.

Briefly, she wondered what Bill would have to say about her now, about the woman she was about to pick up from the airport—the unfaltering British detective with whom she had phone sex at two in the morning. That here she was, middle aged and unmarried, in a constant cycle of loss and recovery, picking up the pieces of her life and finding happiness in an odd overseas partnership that relied purely on each woman’s independence.

She loved her brother, but alone in her kitchen, she chuckled bitterly. He could visit her, when he was ready. Until then, she was content, excited even, to spend her Christmas with Stella Gibson.

She arranged a cheese platter—almost a joke between them now, the cheese platter that would inspire many an double entendre. She left two waffles on the counter to defrost and chopped a bowl of fresh strawberries.

Then she shoveled her driveway and departed for the airport.

  
~

  
Stella slept in the car, more peacefully than Scully had ever seen her sleep. Jet lag had chased away her demons, it seemed, and she lay across the back seat, her hands folded over her silk blouse. Snappily dressed even for a plane ride.

Scully rolled through snow-covered holiday traffic, wiping the blizzard off her windshield every second. Even the small side streets surrounding her home were backed up with traffic, sliding inch by inch down the snow-covered streets. It was two hours before she finally pulled into the driveway and shook Stella awake.

Her eyes shot open instantly, something Scully had grown accustomed to. “Why are we stopping?” she breathed hoarsely. A shiver racked her body; London had not quite prepared her for the snowstorm.

Scully smirked. “We’re home.” Her house had never quite felt like home. She’d moved frequently in the last few years, and buying a house had been an attempt to keep herself grounded. Even if no house or apartment ever felt like home, DC always had. And seeing Stella recover from her nap and stand on wobbly high heels in the snow-covered driveway solidified the feeling.

Stella snaked her arm around Scully’s waist and pulled her closer for a lingering kiss. “I couldn’t at the airport,” she explained. Public displays of affection, beyond sexual interest, had never been quite comfortable for Stella. They seemed somehow dishonest, and Stella always candidly spoke her mind.

They moved Stella’s suitcase inside, moved Scully’s car into the garage, and holed up in the living room as snow accumulated outside. Scully guess five inches by now. Stella was astounded even to see it stick to the ground.

“Have you ever seen snow?” Scully asked with a quiet laugh.

Stella shook her head. “Not in this quantity. It’s quite lovely.” She sipped a massive glass of red wine, wrapped in her silk robe and a fleece blanket. They sat in easy chairs by the fireplace.

“We’re not going out to dinner,” said Scully nonchalantly, watching a car struggle down her street.

Stella’s eyes flitted around the house, settling on the decorative Christmas tree.

“I decorate every year,” said Scully, “even if I work the holidays.”

“I presume you aren’t working this year?” Scully arched an eyebrow questioningly, even if she already knew the answer.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t usually decorate my flat. There never seemed to be any reason to.”

Scully shrugged. “I do it for aesthetics and tradition.” She picked up a lamb from the tiny stone nativity scene on her fireplace. “It’s the little things I appreciate. It reminds me of everyday miracles, unexplained but welcome to be so. You fit in quite nicely here.”

Stella leaned forward. “Do I?” Her cheeks were tinted red with the cold, her eyes inviting.

“You’re stunning.” The words spilled out of her mouth. Words tended to do that when she was around Stella.

Stella’s lips, pink and chapped, curved into a warm smile. “Why thank you.”

Scully stood up and took her empty wine glass to the kitchen. She heard Stella behind her, bare feet padding softly on the hardwood. She refilled her wine glass and reached for the cheese platter when she felt a hand slip under her sweater.

“How about we save that for later?” Stella whispered into her ear.

Scully leaned into her touch. “And now?”

“Now,” said Stella, “I propose we fuck against your counter with all the pent-up desire that comes from spending two months apart.”

“That sounds all right to me.”

Stella’s hands were at the clasp of Scully’s bra in an instant, unfastening it and dropping it onto the floor. Scully turned around and hopped onto the counter, wrapping her legs around Stella’s waist and capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

Scully traced Stella’s prominent cheekbone with her thumb, tucking feathery blond hair behind the detective’s ear. She loved the feel of Stella’s tiny scars and freckles; they reminded her of books, how the best pages wrinkled and had writing. The best people had stories to tell, and Stella’s were written across her face.

Stella seemed younger during the wintertime; as leaves died, she seemed to shed the outgoing year like a moth creeping from its cocoon. She put herself together in winter, her sharp, pale frame fitting like a perfect photograph into the world around her. Scully could imagine seeing Stella stroll beneath an arch of snow-covered trees, hands in the pockets of her trench coat, her frosty blond hair hidden beneath a fleece-lined hat. Some days, Stella was a blizzard, wild and unpredictable, rocking the landscape and stripping mountains of their vegetation. Other days, the days she’d picked up Scully in the London airport and taken her to a candlelit restaurant, she was new fallen snow. She was soft and cold and welcoming, still severe but finally peaceful. Incredibly beautiful.

Scully’s shirt flew off and fell, wrinkled, onto the kitchen floor. Her pajamas—thin flannel things, were tugged away, and Stella’s hands attended dutifully to her breasts. Her nipples peaked, from cold and from arousal, and goosebumps rose on her arms.  
Stella’s lips moved from her’s, trailing instead down her neck and collarbone and to her breasts. They touched a gunshot scar on her shoulder; Stella’s left hand circled the ouroboros on her back before drifting between her legs, tugging her panties aside to tease her aching center.  
Scully’s threaded her fingers through messy blonde hair, and she let out a low moan, a purr rumbling deep in her chest. She could feel Stella smile against her collarbone, and the detective’s thumb slowly circled her clit.

She arched her back, trembled on the cold countertop. “Faster,” she murmured, an as an afterthought, “my ass is freezing.”

Stella nipped her lips, smearing them with burgundy lipstick. “Easily rectified,” she chuckled, “after you come.” She eased two fingers into Scully’s center, curled and thrust until she found Scully’s g-spot then added a third. Scully’s kisses grew less poised, more passionate, and she locked her lips to Stella’s sloppily, her tongue begging entry that was quickly granted. She squirmed on the counter; she could feel herself grow wetter by the second.

Scully lost her limits as she neared orgasm; normally poised and restrained, now she explored Stella’s breasts and hips over her blue silk blouse, popping open buttons one by one. Her hips rocked, and she pulled Stella closer, enjoying the sensation of their bodies pressed together, warming them against the snowstorm outside.

Stella thrust harder, pressed Scully’s g-spot and held her, kept her stable on the counter as her body shuddered and she cried out, her head thrown back and her legs still wrapped firmly around Stella’s hips.

As Scully went limp, Stella lifted her from the counter, kissing her neck, and carried her to the chairs beside the Christmas tree.

“That was lovely,” Scully croaked, rested on Stella’s lap in the chair, chin against the detective’s forehead.

“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” Stella said, smirking, “ever since the first morning, in my kitchen. Seeing you on my countertop…” she trailed off, her eyelids heavy with arousal. “You’ve no idea.”  
Scully leaned into her shoulder, and they watched the snow fall. The wind had died, giving way to stillness and the crackle of the fireplace. Scully’s tree glowed a soft orange in the dying evening light. The moon peeked through a blanket of clouds, and new-fallen snow sparkled on the windowsill.

“Are you glad you came?” Scully murmured softly.

Stella sighed contentedly, staring out the window. “Quite.” It was nice to spend Christmas away from her work, away from the horror of murder and sexual assault, the suffering she witness on a daily basis. Her responsibilities would return in only a few days, but for now, perhaps she could simply watch and feel. Watch the snowstorm, the flickering fire, the soft twitches of Scully’s eyes and the Christmas lights turning her copper hair bright orange.

“Suppose I return your affections,” said Scully coyly, “here by the fire. Where your ass can’t freeze.”

“I’m certainly all right with that.”

Stella giggled—perhaps it can’t be called a giggle, in Stella Gibson’s rich, commanding voice, but a throaty chuckle, playful and younger than both of them.

Winter peeled away time, freezing over nature’s ever-present deterioration, turning the world to a black-and-white photograph so every old man felt young again, and Stella felt ageless. And the nip of cold reminded Scully she was alive, fresh and brave and alive, not another body to drift purposelessly, swept beneath the rug of conspiracy.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Stella,” Scully whispered, lazily kissing the detective’s welcome lips. “I missed you.”

Stella blinked, leaned into the kiss, touched Scully’s cold-flushed cheek. “I missed you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at: poeticsandaliens


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